


Prologue to the most recent printing of Good Omens: An open letter

by Macdicilla



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Real life - Fandom
Genre: Crowley is a dweebus, Gen, Humour, POV: Neil Gaiman, Yes I know and I apologize, secondhand embarrasment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 12:40:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6329608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macdicilla/pseuds/Macdicilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"People often ask me about the writing process of Good Omens. Terry and I have always given humorous responses, but I think it's time for me to reveal the truth. I still remember that poor radio host we publicly snickered at for thinking Good Omens was not a work of fiction.</p><p>The thing is, he was on the right track, or at least closer to it than we let on. But in those days, we were trying to keep a low profile, since the aborted apocalypse was too recent then. The jokes were too soon."</p><p>(In one interview, Gaiman mentions that the character of Crowley had originally been "more shy and diffident." Aternately Titled: Please Don't Expose Me Like This, Mr. Gaiman.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prologue to the most recent printing of Good Omens: An open letter

People often ask me about the writing process of Good Omens. Terry and I have always given humorous responses, but I think it's time for me to reveal the truth. I still remember that poor radio host we publicly snickered at for thinking Good Omens was not a work of fiction.

The thing is, he was on the right track, or at least closer to it than we let on. But in those days, we were trying to keep a low profile, since the aborted apocalypse was too recent then. The jokes were too soon. 

When I first started writing what would later turn into the cult novel Good Omens, I had no idea of what it would become, (Namely an account of real events.) All I knew was that I had an image of a boy and his friends etched into my mind. I thought it was my own idea, based on the Just William books, since the images you get in your head are usually put there by your own mind. Terry and I did not realise what was actually happening till much later. 

Terry and I should have realised something was strange when our story ideas were uncannily similar, but the fact is that we didn't even notice when words kept mysteriously adding themselves into our drafts. The man (well, I _say_ man) snooping around in Terry’s house, however, that was a dead giveaway.

It was around eleven P.M. one night when Terry caught him. Somehow, Terry had managed to restrain him, and had called me on the phone instead of calling the police. I was understandably concerned at his priorities.

“Neil,” he whispered over the phone, “this is one of the guys from our story.”

“Do you mean, he looks like one of the guys from our story?”

“No, it’s him. It’s actually him. You just have to talk to him and you’ll know what I mean. He knows a lot.”

I wondered whether Terry was taking the piss, or he was sleep-talking, or something. I decided to humour him.

“How do you know he’s not somebody who’s just been reading the drafts, then?” I asked slowly.

“Because,” said Terry, “he turned into a little snake while he was trying to get away, but I grabbed him and stuck him in a shoebox and taped a crucifix over it, and now he can’t get out.”

There was nothing I could say to this. He must have heard the notes of doubt in my silence.

“I think I’d best come over,” he said.

I thought so as well.

 

* * *

When Terry arrived at my place, he refused to open the box till I had set up the proper demonic safety precautions (which I remembered from my occult phase in university), and he was cross with me for not entirely believing him. It was hard to believe. It was the sort of thing you would believe in a story, but not in real life. Nevertheless, I set up the precautions and we opened the box slowly, cutting the tape on one side and prying it open with oven tongs.

Surely enough, a tiny– and very, very surly– garter snake slithered out. It– he– was wearing the tiniest pair of sunglasses I’d seen. And then, from one moment to the next, I realised I was looking at a human man, and he seemed as if he had always been there, and always shaped like that. He also looked thoroughly pissed-off. I could not see his eyes, but I felt in the depths of my chest that he was glaring at us.

Terry spoke first.

“Why the hell were you rifling through my papers?”

“Now, look–” began the man in the dark glasses and snakeskin shoes.

“ _You_ look,” said Terry. “Nobody gave you permission to enter my house.”

The demon put his hands up defensively.

“ _I_ didn’t give you permission to write about me like that!” He protested. 

Unwilling to see my friend get into a fight with a denizen of hell (which was very much something that Terry would have done), I interrupted.

“I believe there’s some sort of misunderstanding here, Mr… er…”

Here, he gave us his name, which for the sake of his privacy, I shall not reprint. But the name our readers will recognize him by is,

“Crowley,” he said.

“Right, Crowley. Thank you. What I wanted to say was that we’re novelists. We didn’t set out to write about you. I didn’t have the slightest inkling of your existence until now. Any resemblance in our writing[1] to real persons, or, er, entities, is purely coincidental.”

Crowley made a noise of annoyance.

“Look, pal, you’re wrong, and I don’t have the time to explain how you’re getting the story, or to correct you, or really to care about the rest of the things in your account. All I’m asking, which is pretty reasonable, is for you two to stop writing me as desperately uncool.”

There was a moment’s silence as Terry and I paused to catch up mentally.

“How _did_ you say we were getting this story, then?” Terry asked.

“It’s clearly Adam,[2]” Crowley said impatiently. “Probably thought it was a cool story and wanted you to write it down. If he wants something, the universe conspires to find a way to make it happen.” 

“So, let me get this right,” I said, “if he is sending us the story subconsciously, somehow, just as it all happened, how are _we_ responsible for misrepresenting you in any way?”

At this, the demon looked terribly sheepish. He looked down at his shoes for a bit before answering.

“Please,” he said, much more politely, “I’m just asking you not to expose me like this.”

 

* * *

 

Over the next few weeks, we kept in touch with him. He was as shy and as diffident as we had initially portrayed him, and it was a little hard to go back and make him cooler[3]. By then, we had become friends, the three of us. We wouldn’t have humoured him otherwise. He was great company, and knew a lot about history, having been there. And he had good taste in films and alcohol. 

He promised (we made him promise) not to interfere or influence our story in any other way because we did not want to make it too accurate an account and plagiarize real life. So we never talked with him about the apocalypse. We talked of other things, like the past, cars, comics, the afterlife, and action movies. His knowledge of Bond trivia was thorough, and he was quite proud of it.

We kept in touch after the book was done and published. He took us out for drinks to celebrate when it became a hit. For a while, he was stationed on the continent, but we were still able to talk via the wonders of technology, by which I mean the demon-summoning kit I own and keep in my basement. 

But as sometimes happens over the years, Crowley and I began corresponding less frequently, and sometimes half a year would go by without a word from either of us. We were both terribly busy with our professions, and we were both moving up quickly.

 

* * *

 

In 2014, when the radio adaptation of Good Omens was commissioned, I wrote to Crowley to tell him the news, and he told me he already knew, but that he was quite elated when he heard. He invited me over for dinner at his cottage in Sussex, which he shared with his angelfriend.

They were nothing if not excellent hosts (and cooks) and I felt welcome immediately. We caught up on what the other had been up to over the years. He had many interesting stories, one or two of which were true. After a few drinks, Crowley brought up the radio programme again, and offered to help with the casting. I thanked him, but told him the casting was not entirely in my hands. 

“He’s been so hard at work trying to pick out the casting,” Aziraphale tutted.

“I have not!” Crowley protested.

“I bet I know who you want cast as you,” Aziraphale continued, teasing.

“Please stop.”

“Peter, the Seraph of the Black Book. You like his voice, don’t you?”

“ShutupShutupShutup,” Crowley implored, reddening.

I assumed this was a friend of the angel’s and didn’t think about it.

 

* * *

 

A week later, watching some early-2000s sitcom episodes on my laptop, it hit me that they meant an actual actor.  I gathered that it must have been their private name for a specific actor after I realized who it was, and had a good laugh about it before looking up his agent’s information and relaying it on to the casting director.

When Crowley found out who had been cast as him, he was partly pleased, and partly mortified I had found out. I told him I approved of his choice of voice actor, and thanked him, since I would have never thought of that one myself, since Mr Serafinowicz’s voice was at least two octaves deeper than I had envisioned the part.

Crowley was offended by my joke.

Since then, very many small snakes have been physically manifesting in my house. I have written him four different letters of apology, which I sent to him to no avail, and then sent to his angelfriend in the hopes that he could help reconcile us.

The snakes have not stopped. I am begging you, Anthony Crowley, please cease and desist. Amanda and I are expecting a baby in a few months’ time, and we are both tired of your nonsense.

Do not force me to expose any more details about your uncoolness.

Do not force me to summon you in your ducky pyjamas in front of my video camera.

 

* * *

 

[1] Which, come to think of it, he had no right to read.

[2] This was not the antichrist’s real name either. We changed it to protect a minor’s identity, and because we thought the symbolism was really cool.

[3] For example, we made the sunglasses a part of his aesthetic instead of a protection for his very light-sensitive vertical slit pupils.


End file.
